


WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, MORTY?

by skeedoodle



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, i altered canon for the better, i am instilling my headcanons in this, no they're not dating you gross reptiles, they're fam for life now, well. . . only a few
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 12:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15841197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeedoodle/pseuds/skeedoodle
Summary: president morty hears something peculiar during the last encounter with his ex-campaign manager, before he died. it stuck with him, and haunts him. he's seen the same question in the look of his grandfathers, but it was rarely vocalized.





	WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, MORTY?

president morty leaned back with a huff. a stress fully boring day. little death, but otherwise just as emotionally draining. he opened his left fist, revealing his eyepatch. how did the rick guards find it? why did they give it back? wouldn't they want to imprison him for lying to get into office—or did they simply not know about what he did? he was sure they did, but there was no comment as they handed it to him at the scene, though the transmitter was completely busted and removed. they must have not wanted to risk him doing the same. like it would be that hard to replicate such an easy transmitter. it was a basic one, made within fifteen minutes, made to be easily hidden within his rick at the time.  
  
_he could always make more._  
  
he growled, his fist clenching around the eyepatch like he could make it go up in flames. he glared off, his fist shaking from the intensity. the fact of the matter was that he didn't want to make anymore. he never wanted to go through that ever again. it isn't worth the nightmares, migraines, the vomiting, the flinching—all the negatives that come with manipulating someone for your own personal goal.

but, being a morty still meant he still had a fully functional guilty conscious. in the moment, he didn't realize it, but it was always there. it showed through in the last seconds, when his head filled with fuzzy doubt. when his hand fiddle with a trigger of a gun, and he is pricked with a bit of nausea that he ignores. he ignores all the warning signs.  
  
he was just like all the other mortys, but he was also so different. he could smile, and lie through his teeth, projecting enough morty vibes to block out the ricks'.  but, underneath all of that, he was still scum. bottle of the bottle. and a part of him enjoyed the difference, because every rick and morty duo wasn't the same, but none ever controlled their grandparent. none of them killed their grandparent before him. their were worse situations, but nothing compared to what he was going through. 

he sat straight up, pulling himself closer to his desk. he was, in short, disgusted in what he had done. with the negatives. with being the rickest morty. he slammed his hands on the desk in frustration, and watched the eyepatch fall to the ground. he  wished he'd never gotten this damned thing back. it went him though too many memories. all the abuse, rejection, and pain his life at "home" brought. he chuckled; how could he ever forget the he'll he's been through? how could he forget that he was treated like a punching bag? 

"why am i like this?" he muttered to himself, angrily wiping the hot tears forming in his eyes. such a question filled him with loathing, and took him back to when he last saw his campaign manager. what an average morty, he used to think, so dumb and naïve like the rest. that was, until he tried to kill him before he was sworn into office. before. . . 

_all he remembers is the blood. not just his own, but everyone else's. his rick's, his campaign manager, and his own. it was stained onto him, even though all that was really there was his own. it it dripped onto his clothes and his hand, from his nose, and the internalized flashback caught him off guard. so much so, he didn't realize their was a gun pointed at him, aimed at his head. Panting, his campaign manager tried to threaten him._

_"give it up!" he yelled, his voice shrill. it was the adrenaline, and the little cockiness that is hidden in all mortys. he knew how accomplished he must feel. . . for a morty. "i have the gun! th-the jig is up!" even though he could die, it was laughable how he thought such a punchline was cool enough to use. like this was a drug bust. his hands are shaking so bad he has to use two hands to hold the pistol the was knocked from evil's blood-stained hands._

_but he did laugh. it was hilarious. to think that his campaign manager had it in him to try to kill him a second time. so much for second chances. "please," he begged, calming down from his little fit. "you're just a morty! one just like the rest. you don't have the nerve to shoot again. or i would be dead already. the last time should've killed me. but, like a typical morty, you missed. you thought i'd just bleed out, right?" as he spoke, he was able to inch closer, thought he kept his eyes on the other morty, and his hands up._

_"funny thing about blood, morty," he spit the name like it wasn't his own. personally, he didn't feel a though the name fit him. but that was for another time. "it clots. and surgeons can remove bullets. and such an emotionally stressful tasks," he put his left hand on the barrel of the gun, a bored expression taking over his slightly crazed one, "only last seconds in a long life where it leaves as soon as it comes."  
_

_he retrieved the gun from the other morty, who looked, among other things, shocked. it dawned on him that his life was over, and he had let his opponent speak long enough to sidetrack him. evil morty offered a pitiful smile, using his other hand, push down on the other's shoulder, getting him on his knees effortlessly. he was defeated, but the effort he put into it was certainly admirable. at least, he thought so._

_"h-how?" he asked, quietly, tears streaming down his face. then, he looked up at the politician, scared. "why did y-you do it?"_

_"ugh, we're not going to do this, morty," the morty groaned, the gun almost feeling light as a feather as he twirled his wrist. "unlike you, i'm not succumbing to tropes and stereotypes." he stood up, taking a decent step back. he didn't want anymore blood on him than there already was. the true funny thing was, no matter how hard you scrubbed, or showered, or covered it up, the blood was already there. that's why he knew the other morty couldn't be damned to shoot him. because he was barely living with the stains._

_"why. . ."  the campaign manager sobbed, his hands covering his eyes as he sobbed hysterically, "why are you like this, morty?" the question winded him when he it went through the air. the whiplash from it only made it easier to pull the trigger. and he quickly threw the gun down afterwards, watching the other bleed out in front of him. it stained his shoes. just another excuse to get new ones, he thought, feeling bile pile up in his mouth. he leaned to the left, throwing his guts up. wiping his mouth, he began to stumble away. almost as if he drank too much. he wished that were the case right now._

everything seemed dull and pointless since then. nothing ever seemed to be worth it in the beginning, though. from what he remembers, the kid thought they were the same, and that the only thing that made them different was the way the president acted. but, if eyepatch didn't act, then which morty would? would it just be a cycle of abuse until another morty snaps? who knows how long that'll be. . .

still, the kid's question stuck like glue. a horribly big pill that wouldn't go down. weren't they, down to there bits and pieces, the same?

a rick guard knocks and enters. "sir, please come quick. a crowd has formed around j19 zeta 7 a few blocks down. it seems to be m-metastasizing, causing a road block. we need to get him out of their before they cause serious damage. we might need to use force." 

"go on ahead. i'll follow behind." he instructed, getting out of his seat. he didn't run, like the rick did, yelling the okay given by the president. if he were different, he would smile. but, he was only himself. 

_so, to answer your question, morty,_ he thought, as if his thought could ripple through time and into the other's brain, _i am only myself. if i acted like a typical morty, nothing would ever change. and wouldn't that just be crippling? to walk with scars so loud, and to be shut down when you speak because you're name. why, that's exactly what i'm doing right now. can't you feel the anger shake your very being?_

now, he smiled, a crazed smile— one that was only for himself. it quickly dropped when he reach his shaken, crowed grandpa, who mustn't ever find out exactly how awful he could be. 


End file.
